the liar's paradox
by Isis Lied
Summary: Only the dead tell truths— In which a human obsessed with death visits Uta's studio. Male!oc centric.
1. Chapter 1- Guillotine

_{the liar's paradox}_

_Only the dead tell truths— In which a human obsessed with death visits Uta's studio. Male!oc centric. _

_warnings: contains mentions of suicide, depression, gore, and violent themes. you have been warned. oh, and spoilers for the end of the tg manga._

* * *

"_he's a_

_guillotine__,_

_honey—_

_and one day_

_you'll lose_

_more than your __**head**__."_

* * *

**_Chapter 1- Guillotine _**

He doesn't know what draws him to the ghoul-infested alleyways (_it's a lie but it's a lie he needs to believe in)_ deep in the decrepit bowels of the 4th ward. But soon he's running from the death he thought he wanted, sprinting and gasping for air as a starving monster stumbles behind him.

"I just want one bite, please! If I don't eat I'll lose my_ mind!" _The words are howled through clenched teeth, the mad ghoul convulsing with a dangerous hunger at every step. His steps are hurried and frantic, sounding akin to the gait of a dozen people instead of a single unstable monster. It is an uneven staccato of footsteps which resound against the cement, beating in time with Ryouta's heartbeat.

_Thud._

_This can't be happening—_

_Thud._

_This isn't what I wanted at all!_

_A garbage can is flung at him by a blossoming red bikaku-type kagune, hitting him in the back of his knees. He falls forward with all the force of his sprint, rubbing the skin of his palms and shoulder raw._

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit!_

_He collects himself from the fall, stumbling towards the end of the alleyway. There is no pain, only a frantic haze of fear that causes him to cry out._

"_Someone, anyone, help me!"_

Laughter echoes at his plea, mocking his attempts at survival—though it is not the only response to his screams.

As he turns the corner, his spotted vision creates an unwanted mass of angles and shapes in the form of a red-brick wall. A dead end.

What a fucking way to go, lost in the spiraling maze of the 4th's _ghoul district_. He could almost laugh if he wasn't holding back a choked sob.

This was nothing like the quick, painless death he had envisioned for himself. A death he had hoped would be ruled as a tragedy done by the hands of ghouls. A bullet would have been so much fucking easier.

Still running, Ryouta jumped the single flight of cement stairs, tumbling towards his assumed death. If he was going to die like this, he'd die knowing he gave his all, in the end. That maybe suicide had been an option, but an option he wished hadn't enticed his mind. This would be a choice without regrets.

"F-fuck off!" The words are said through chattering teeth, each gasp harder than the last. He's sure he's bruised something—perhaps even broken a rib at his 'heroic' leap from the stairwell but it was a pain he once again kept from encroaching into his consciousness.

His fingers find purchase on what appears to be a welcome mat of all things. Dark eyes briefly flitting to the _OPEN _sign on the door, Ryouta pulls himself up by the doorknob, knees weak and wobbly. It feels like he's standing on a plank of driftwood in the middle of the ocean but he summons up the strength to rest his entire weight against the oak door. In one motion he finds himself strewn out against a tile floor, kicking the door closed with his good leg.

He braces for the inevitable sound of the ghoul clawing at the doorframe, but it does not come. There is only the sound of his haggard breathing as he picks himself off the glossy floors, a sharp pain rising in his left leg.

Ryouta hisses in pain, running a single hand into his windswept red locks. He feels blood welling up in the form of cuts against his forehead as he comes face to face with a pale man whose body was adorned with tattoos.

"Ah, hello there. Are you alright?" He tips his head in an observant gesture, gaze masked by the heavily tinted glare of sunglasses. There's something unnerving in the fact that the stranger could freely observe him—something that sends a sudden chill down Ryouta's spine.

He doesn't know what it is, but he can feel every muscle in his body tensing, pupils dilating, hands clammy, even though his breathing had steadied. The threat was gone… right?

* * *

The man, he learns rather easily, is named Uta. He's a mask maker, one of those self-employed craftsmen who stay afloat through other more lucrative means. Ryouta wonders what Uta does on the side, but refrains from voicing his concerns.

The studio is nicely furnished, if not cluttered by art supplies. There are pencils and pieces of charcoal strewn on any available space. He spots a couch in the corner of the flat, a black leather ensemble matched by an equally dark armchair.

Though, if he were being honest, what really catches his eye is not the eccentric nature of the man or the messiness of his home, but the range of masks that are displayed both on the walls and in pristine glass cases. They are all separated evenly, wrapped in velvet cloth if displayed in a case, and range from the macabre to the poetically beautiful. Ryouta spots two masks which are displayed as a pair. One has long silver ram horns, the face painted black and cracked lightly where the temples were, revealing a sheen of white paint. It was as if the mask had once been born of an angelic being, now fallen. The mask beside it looked to be something worn at masquerades or fancy galas; it was layered in gold details, pearls dipping down and resting just below the cheeks. White lace outlined the half mask while brushes of gold dusted just below the oval holes which represented the eyes. It was so beautiful that he couldn't stare at it for too long. Instead, the red-head dropped his gaze to the mask maker in front of him.

"So, Uta-san, what made you live here? With all the ghoul attacks, I mean. Aghh, damnit!" He yells a little too loudly as a cotton ball dabbed at his shoulder. Crimson seeped into the cotton ball until Uta pulled back, discarding it in the trash.

"Sorry… but you should know at your age that disinfectants sting." The ghoul observed, grabbing hold of his forearm. He continued on without missing a beat, "As for why I live here, it's actually pretty simple. The rent here is dirt cheap. And the neighbors aren't that bad—sometimes you even get to see some cannibalism and that's always interesting."

Ryouta could only stare back in shock. Not only had the tattooed man insinuated that he was much older than him (he was 21, not a high-school student, though his short stature had caused many to think otherwise), but he had implied cannibalism all in a single retort.

_Is this guy for real?_

The ghoul blinked, adding a qualifier as if he had heard the boy's troubled inner monologue. "Just kidding!"

He paused to readjust his unusual sitting position on the bar stool; he sat with both legs pressed to his chest even though it greatly hindered his reach. Though, as far as Ryouta was concerned, he was just glad that the man knew something about first-aid. He could worry about his eccentricities much, _much _later.

"Now, please, be still. I need to wrap the wound with gauze; it wouldn't do any good if you bled out in my studio, hmm?" Uta chuckled at his own dark words, slowly wrapping the bandages near the junction between his shoulder and arm.

He hummed as he worked, tearing off the excess with his teeth. The pseudo-violence that came with the action surprised the boy, but it allowed him to see Uta's eyelashes as he tipped his head.

_I wonder what color his eyes are… _

Instead, a different sort of pondering left his lips. "You're really good at this. Don't tell me you have experience with this kind of thing."

It was meant as a light joke, but the man stilled all the same, tattooed fingers perched on the lid of the first-aid kit. He remained silent and suddenly Ryouta worried he had stepped over some invisible boundary with the artist.

Ah, he should have known to keep his mouth shut. The poor man was helping him after a ghoul attack; he shouldn't be prying into his life. He had just met the guy for crying out loud!

"You know, the 20th ward is very peaceful—though the CCG would paint it otherwise. Travel around for a bit and try to survive. You'll learn things like wrapping bandages and applying ointments pretty easily…" He trailed off, lips pulled into a frown.

Due to his sunglasses, his lips were the only indicator of emotion—minus the sound of his voice, of course.

"I'd rather not." He replied honestly. "Actually, I—"

"Sorry to interrupt, but could I call you Ryou-kun? I think it sounds quite cute."

"…Excuse me?" Just what was this man doing? He certainly acted like a clown at times with all his seemingly random statements.

"You see… I don't get too many customers. It's quite lonely here. I don't want to say that I'm glad you were attacked, but I'm glad I got to meet you. Perhaps you'll even become a real customer someday."

The boy nodded, a flurry of thoughts racing through his head. The strange tattooed man may just be what he needed to rekindle his writing. Funny, how near death could cause such odd epiphanies. There was something sinister hidden underneath Uta's polite speech and wide smiles, that was for sure. But it drew him in all the same—just as the decrepit alleyways of the _ghoul district _had ultimately brought him to his door.

"Alright, fair enough, I guess. But that means I get to just call you Uta, right?"

The ghoul nodded, fingers trailing against the boy's skin for a moment longer than necessary. He took a deep breath, returning his supplies to the first-aid box. "Sounds like a deal."

The lid snapped closed like a _guillotine_.

* * *

Uta popped another eyeball into his mouth, chewing the dissolving sclera thoughtfully. Ryouta was such a pleasant surprise. Rarely did he get humans stumbling into his studio—wounded ones were even rarer. He'd certainly treasure his time with his new plaything.

He had weaseled out a phone number and a promise for another meeting. Uta couldn't wait. Things with the Pierrot were fitfully boring right now. It would be a good distraction.

Though, he did quite enjoy the boy's company. He was the easiest human to read that he had ever come across. There wasn't a lying bone in his body. His face, gestures, and words betrayed his every emotion.

His full name was Ryouta Oshiro. He dropped out of college to write a book involving a protagonist whose cursed fate led to the downfall of the entire human race. It was written beautifully (or, at least, from the little excerpt he had seen from the boy's phone), but people just weren't interested in tragedies nowadays. Leeching off his parents, the poor man had fallen into a spiral of depression involving heavy amounts of liquor to get rid of his thoughts of failure and disgrace. And, while he hadn't been too privy in telling of why he had stumbled down into the _ghoul district _of the 20th ward, his eyes had told the entire story.

He had gone out to die. Unable to pull a trigger or stab himself, Ryouta had wanted a ghoul to do the job—an interesting and unique way to commit suicide, Uta noted.

Humans were so fickle. It brought a smile to the clown's face just thinking about it.

"Ryou-kun, won't you let me have more fun? I'd love to take your eyes someday…" He held out a murky pair of brown eyes in his left hand, allowing the studio lighting to create a bright shine. They didn't compare to Ryouta's. There weren't any eyes in the world that seemed to hold as much sadness as his. They seemed to reflect every human sympathy ever witnessed in the world.

He wanted to unravel the boy, find out what hidden secrets still remained. There was a novelty to the frailness and sadness born from a human. It was always unexpected but inexplicably beautiful.

The sight of a shattered cup could be just as breathtaking as unmarred porcelain—especially if it were filled with blood.

The thought brought a smile to Uta's lips. Chaos was so… _thrilling._

* * *

a/n: I'm uta trash and I'm proud lol. anyway, here's an experimental piece; it's not my normal writing style but I tried my best. didn't expect there to be any humor but uta is uta, after all. updates will be based on interest I guess; so let me know if you wanna see more of Ryouta and the 'sadness' he reflects in his writing.

also, ryouta may seem like a blank slate right now, but that's because he grows in development along w/ uta due to their interaction. i hope you'll be patient- i believe the wait will be worth it~

_**review?**_

-isis


	2. Chapter 2- Shakespeare's Jester

.

.

"_we were made of fool's __**gold**__, _

_but I believe we still shined_

_as bright as _

_the s u n."_

* * *

**Chapter 2- Shakespeare's Jester **

It was a few days later that Ryouta gathered up the courage to traverse the dangerous alleyways of the 4th ward. This time, now free from the haze of fear which had brought him to the mask maker's door the first time, the writer stood pensively, dark eyes reading the fancy script that denoted the name of the studio. _HySy_… he shrugged at the seeming belligerence of the title, but focused instead on the black circle which enclosed the word. Tendrils of dark paint coated the wall, revealing a pattern akin to an inky sun; faintly, Ryouta recalled that a similar marking had been peaking from beneath Uta's top.

_Either he's a narcissist or that tattoo means a lot to him._

Running a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to neaten his rather disheveled appearance, the writer sighed, pinching the single red lock which cascaded messily across the bridge of his nose. A haircut was certainly in order; at his most depressive, his looks had meant almost nothing to him. Now, he inwardly kicked himself for the foolishness. Didn't most people dress up before they committed suicide? Why were his thoughts and emotions so erroneous, so different from other people with unipolar depression?

Though, he mused, the event must have kick started something in the bone arena of his brain if he was able to joke about his own near death experience.

Shaking away the thoughts with the turn of his head, Ryouta gripped the demonic face of the door knocker, giving it two short raps.

Moments passed with no answer. The tattooed man said he was free to come over at any time, whether the studio was open or closed, but that didn't mean simple curtesy didn't apply.

"Hey, Uta…" He started once he pushed open the door, voice disappearing at the sight of a human skeleton on a metal stand. It stood with its palms raised, shadows crisscrossing against the exposed bone in hexagonal patterns.

The skeleton was clothed in rich silk, strands of black pearls rippling like waves across the satin fabric. All at once, Ryouta felt himself becoming more and more enamored by the sickly creation. Topaz gems glistened inside the dark eye sockets while the mouth was wrenched open by taught wire hooks, revealing what appeared to be two human eyes. They were almost black inside the dry confines of the dead, placed precariously against the slack jaw so they seemed to be peering upwards at the light fixture—or at the lopsided crown that mimicked human skin. It fused with the parietal lobes, creating a stitched pattern which eventually led to a series of crooked silver crosses that acted as a diadem of sorts. If he squinted, he could almost see the faint outline of violet veins in the base of the crown.

Transfixed by the horror of the macabre skeleton, Ryouta found himself reaching forward, fingers poised to grasp the palm of the bony outstretched hand. A myriad of thoughts buzzed through his mind as his fingers brushed the cold bone, a shiver of _something _passing through body.

_I want to know you, Death_

_Just what do you feel? _

_Are you kind? _

_Will you grant me peace?_

"Do you like it? I was inspired by you."

Ryouta jumped at the sound of the mask maker's voice, nearly losing his grip on the notepad and pen tucked under his arm.

"W-why didn't you answer when I first walked in?!"

The ghoul gave a chuckle as he stepped from his hiding place behind the skeleton, sunglasses still perched on the bridge of his nose. He held out a pair of silver scissors in one hand and a ball of red thread in the other.

"Because that wouldn't be fun; I was making some last minute alterations on the lovely lady's shawl when you knocked. I wasn't planning to scare you, but it just worked out that way."

"Right…" The boy huffed, setting his yellow notepad on the nearest glass case. If there was one thing Ryouta had already learned from his brief interactions with the tattooed man, it was that he was fond of teasing—to a probably unhealthy degree, actually.

It took a few minutes for the writer to process what Uta had said before—about being an inspiration for the morbid skeleton.

"H-hey, what did you say before? About me being inspiration?"

The ghoul's lips curled upwards as he retrieved a black sewing kit. Popping open the lid, he carefully placed the spool of thread and scissors into it. "Well, you seem to be connected to death—and I don't think that you realize how much being raised in darkness has affected you."

He motioned for the red-head to sit on the nearby sofa. "I'll make us some coffee; there are some things I'd like to talk to you about, Ryou-kun."

* * *

With a warm cup of bitter black coffee in his hands, Ryouta sat on the edge of the dark sofa. Taking a polite sip (the coffee tasted like sludge as it rolled down his throat), he placed the mug on the glass table between them. Uta's smile at the man's reaction was hid as he took a sip of his own coffee, letting out a sigh of contentment. He was actually quite fond of sweet drinks, but he purposefully gave his guests black coffee— it made them wonder how he could easily gulp down cup after cup.

"Now, Ryou-kun, when did you realize you were obsessed with death?"

The comment caught the poor boy off guard, causing him to flinch at the words. He had to catch his notebook with his left hand before it slipped off his lap at his sudden lurch. With a breathy laugh, the writer could only shake his head.

"Ah, obsession seems a bit… harsh, doesn't it?"

"Not at all. You want to _understand_ death, don't you? Did something happen when you were young? Perhaps the death of a close relative?" Uta tipped his head to the side, fringe tilting against his pale chin. He paused to take a sip of his coffee.

"You don't have to tell me if it's too personal. I know we've only known each other for a little while—"

Ryouta interrupted, waving a hand. "No. It's about time I talked this out with someone—someone other than my therapist, anyway."

Though he was surprised that Uta had been perceptive enough to catch on to his oddities, it wasn't too farfetched, given his current displays of emotion. He had reached out to the skeleton in awe; there hadn't been a hint of disgust in his face. And, given that the man's studio had brought new life to his work, inspiration even, it really wasn't too difficult to fill in the blanks.

Faintly, Ryouta wondered if he had always been so easy to read. He'd give the man some of his story; not all of it, but enough that his guilty conscience would rest easy. Friendships were built on trust, after all. And Uta had helped him at his weakest, the least he could do was tell the truth.

"Well, you could say that. It's your usual cliché sob story though, so don't get too excited."

"Nonsense. Everything about you interests me, Ryou-kun." There was a sincerity in his voice that made the writer's prior fears dissipate. Uta was actually a pretty good guy… right?

"I was twelve when my closest friend died. I found her—she had somehow fallen from the outdoor balcony and I…" He brushed a nervous hand through his hair. It never got easier to talk about.

"I… found her sprawled out against the pavement. She had really pretty eyes—cobalt. They looked glassy, almost like real sapphires. Blood pooled from her head, darkening her light-brown hair. It was like looking at a fallen angel. In that moment I thought she had never looked more beautiful."

"…Your obsession with death isn't merely because you want to understand it—you want to find out why you find it so _attractive_. Why it entices you, makes you think horrible thoughts of loved ones dying. Do they die at your hands?"

A choked laugh escaped Ryouta's lips as he frantically tried to compose himself. "W-what?"

He hadn't heard the man properly, had he? There was no way… no way he could know what sort of dreams plagued him. Why he had purposefully distanced himself from friends and family and dropped out of college. An uncomfortable feeling twisted in the pit of his stomach. Just how perceptive was the mask maker? He felt like he was being dissected, as if he were a squirming frog on a dissection table.

_Perception is a tool that's pointed on both ends.*_

"…Never mind. We've talked a lot about you; why don't you ask me a question instead? I promise to answer honestly." He held out a hand as if he were swearing on a Bible, smile lopsided and wide.

It made the writer shiver. Though he was relieved that the 'scalpel' had been put away for the time, he still wondered just how truthful the man would be. He created masks for God's sake; Ryouta was not oblivious to the irony.

Not to mention that Uta's actions were uncanny to the antagonist of the novel he had written. A jester-like man based on Shakespeare's archetype of the fool. Unlike in most works, Shakespeare's fool was the only person in the play who was guaranteed to live— able to tiptoe between the lines of conflict and romance that led to the downfall of the tragic hero and his companions. He was often the wisest of the cast, knowing very well that the heroes were walking down a thorny path to destruction—but opted to simply watch and enjoy the show, turning the other characters into his own little theatre of love-sick fools. It was absolutely _cunning_.

The red-haired man shook his head; he was getting worked up over nothing.

"Uh, sure. What does your tattoo say? The one on your neck, I mean."

The ghoul ran a slim hand down the base of his throat, feeling the slow drum of his pulse. "It's in Latin:

_Nec possum tecum vivere, nec sine te. _

_I can live neither with you, nor without you_."

* * *

Information gathering was quite a fun pastime. Now, with enough to write a short novel on Ryouta, Uta lounged lazily on the same sofa where the boy had poured out his heart—figuratively, of course. There would be a time to eat his heart.

But the mask maker had always been the type to play with his food. Though, if he were being honest with himself, he wasn't satisfied. He wanted to know more.

Did his thoughts often border violence? Would he, given the chance, kill another person? The thought made a wide smile flit across his pale features.

Oh, did he have plans for the boy. He would reveal himself, in time. The clown had a stroke of inspiration—another one, all thanks to the death-obsessed writer.

"_I wonder… what sort of mask would you like, Ryou-kun?"_

* * *

In his own cramped apartment, Ryouta tossed and turned, finding sleep near impossible. His mind would not rest. His visit to Uta's studio had inspired him like no other. His tattoo in particular had kept him awake, haunting in the same way that the ghoul's skeleton had.

_I can live neither with you, nor without you… what a novel idea for a protagonist. _

So, taking a pencil and the same notebook where he normally jotted down story ideas, Ryouta began the first few lines of his new novel:

_There was a valley of skeletons underneath his feet, and, looking at his own crudely stitched skin, he realized that they were his fallen comrades. He had killed them all to live again—damning himself to become a chimera of body parts animated by his avarice._

_I want to live, he thought, crawling on his hands and knees._

_I want to live, he thought, biting off large chunks of soft flesh._

_I want to live, he thought, swallowing an eyeball with a satisfied sigh._

* * *

a/n: eyyy guys :3 how's it going? i'm a busy pineapple but I somehow managed to update w/o too long a delay. I'm actually pretty stoked for this story so I'm gonna try to keep the update schedule to 1-2 weeks but no promises, sorry ^^' and yeah, ryou-kun's got his problems, and uta is probably not gonna be the best role model or confidant but it'll be interesting to see how everything turns out for the poor boy :P

anyway, thanks for all the comments and faves/follows; they are truly great motivators and they make me feel all warm and tingly inside. special thanks to the anon who made me realize that I accidentally said uta's studio was in the 20th ward, when it is really in the 4th ward… oops ^^'

*= this quote was shamelessly stolen from a line in NBC"s _Hannibal_, lol

_**Review?**_

**-isis**


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